


dry kindling burns the hottest

by thetasteoflies



Series: kay's zutara one-shots: smut [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: 2k words of smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate-Fucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, everything is consensual they just fucking hate each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetasteoflies/pseuds/thetasteoflies
Summary: “I hate you,” she spits.“Likewise.” He shoves his leg between her thighs and Katara’s breath hitches. Her hips move involuntarily. “Yes or no?”
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: kay's zutara one-shots: smut [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112996
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125
Collections: 2021 Song Quote Challenge





	dry kindling burns the hottest

**Author's Note:**

> the lyric that inspired this:  
> "On that lonely night / We said it wouldn't be love / But we felt the rush / It made us believe it was only us, only us." - Earned It, The Weeknd
> 
> my entire line of thinking went:  
> no love  
> they don't love each other  
> but   
> they gon' fuck  
> ...  
> they don't love each other  
> ...  
> THEY HATE EACH OTHER  
> and  
> they gon' fuck
> 
> 🤗

* * *

* * *

“Aang, it’s time for lunch. Come on.” Katara stands at the edge of where Aang and Zuko are practicing. She keeps track of Aang. Keeps him on schedule.

“We’re not done,” Zuko says, holding an arm out to prevent Aang from leaving.

Katara crosses her arms and scowls at him (more than she already was.) “Yes, you are.”

“No. We’re. Not.” He steps forward and stares her down.

“Yes. You. Are. We have a schedule. You get all morning. Toph and I split the afternoon. That’s already unfair.”

“There’s nothing unfair about it. He needs to learn firebending.”

“And what? You think that’s more important than his waterbending or earthbending training?”

Zuko cocks an eyebrow at her and says flatly, “Yeah. It is.”

It’s just a flash and a loud splash and then Zuko is on the ground, dripping wet. Katara hauls Aang away. Even with her back turned, she can feel the heat of his glare.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Different day, same problem.

Katara’s already on edge as she approaches them. She whistles to get Aang’s attention.

They’re both facing away from her, moving through a kata. Aang is breathing hard and doesn’t notice her. Neither of them do. She’s momentarily mesmerized by them – the way every kick or punch is decisive and forceful. The shimmer of their flames. The way the muscles of Zuko’s back tighten as he moves. The way his biceps flex. The grunts he makes when he—

She catches herself, rips that thought to shreds and yells out, “Time’s up! Let’s go!”

Aang spins around happily at the sound of her voice. Zuko tosses a glare over his shoulder at her. He speaks to Aang, low and commanding, “Finish this set.”

Aang glances to Katara, gives her a little shrug and resumes his movements.

Zuko saunters over to her. The high noon sun enhances the sheen of sweat on his bare chest. He’s breathing hard too, but the measured rise and fall of his chest speaks to good breath control. Katara’s eyes roam downward over his abs to the vee of his hips and she wonders just what sound he would make if she sunk her teeth in there.

She snaps her head up. “I said, time’s up.”

He narrows his eyes in contempt. “He’s almost done.”

Katara reaches down to uncork her waterskin. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“Aang!” Zuko calls out without breaking eye contact with Katara. “Do another set when you’re done with that one.”

Katara doesn’t think about getting angry. She already was. But he was the spark that lit the dynamite.

Katara flies at him, landing one clean hit before he fights back. Distantly, she can hear Aang shouting but she is too busy dodging and striking to care.

He lunges at her and she catches him and throws him to the ground. Zuko snarls as she pins him, her legs on either side of his hips, one hand at his throat, the other wielding an ice shard.

Exactly what she is planning on doing with it, she doesn’t know. She only knows that it feels good to have him beneath her.

He brings his left hand up to defend himself – or so she thinks. Instead of protecting himself though, he tries to grab at her.

She catches his wrist mid-motion and pushes him in the opposite direction. He struggles and she pushes harder, trying to restrain him.

_Crackkkkkk._

And then there’s a pop beneath her fingers and he stops struggling.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then his wrist goes limp.

Katara scrambles off him and leaves without saying a word.

*_*_*_*_*_*

That night, Zuko isn’t at dinner. Guilt slowly begins to creep its way into Katara’s conscience. She should probably apologize. Even though he started it. Even though he was the one who goaded her. Even though the whole thing was his fault.

Even though everything is his fault. It’s his fault she hates him. It’s his fault that she has to be angry all the time. It’s his fault that she can’t stop thinking about his little gasp when she had her hand around his throat. Or the way his skin nearly scorched hers. Or the way his eyes burned.

All. His. Fault.

Katara goes to his room later that night. Doesn’t bother to knock. He doesn’t deserve that much politeness.

She opens the door. “Zuko, I’m sorry or whatever for— WHAT THE FUCK!”

He yanks his pants up.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU? EVER HEARD OF PRIVACY?”

“No! I – that’s not what I – what were you—”

“Katara,” he says slowly. “Get the fuck out.”

“That’s rude.”

“ _I’m_ rude?” Zuko gets up and stands over her. He doesn’t touch her. “I didn’t break your wrist. I didn’t come barging into your room.”

“I barged in here to apologize!” she says, invading his space.

“I don’t want your apology.”

“Fine. Because you’re not getting it.”

“Fine,” he says.

“FINE!” she screams.

“Get. Out.” He still doesn’t touch her.

Katara doesn’t know why she says this. She doesn’t even think about it. It just slips out. “Make me.”

He shoves her against the wall and the small place where his skin touches hers _burns_. She lets out the sound that has been building inside her – a cross between desire and need and pain.

His eyes are cruel when he asks, “Is that what you want?”

Zuko pushes forward until there is no discernable space between them. Something hard presses against her thigh. He winds his good hand around the back of her head and pulls her hair until she looks up at him. “Answer me. Do you want me to make you? Yes or no?”

“I hate you,” she spits.

“Likewise.” He shoves his leg between her thighs and Katara’s breath hitches. Her hips move involuntarily. “Yes or no?”

“No,” she grits out.

“Fine.” He’s gone as quick as he came, walking back toward the bed. He sits down. “Come here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

A wicked smile plays at his lips. He puts a hand on his hip and stretches the fabric of his pants. What had been a bulge now leaves very little to the imagination. His cock strains against his pants and it’s pretty clear which one of them is going to win that fight.

Katara’s strong. But she’s only human. She’s beside him on the bed before she can blink.

“This is all your fault,” Zuko says, stroking himself with his right hand through his pants.

“What does that mean?” Katara rubs her legs together as she watches him.

“You are absolutely infuriating.”

“So are you.” She slaps his hand away and replaces it with her own.

His head dips for a second and a low sound escapes him before he says, “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.” She hooks a thumb in the waistband of his pants.

“You make me so angry.”

“ _So_ angry,” she echoes, yanking his pants down.

“And so fucking hard.”

“Clearly,” Katara says. She licks her palm and wraps her hand around him. “This is all my fault.”

“It is,” he hisses. “You do this to me.” He thrusts up into her hand and groans. “But you broke my fucking wrist. It’s not exactly easy to take care of myself like this.”

Her voice is icy and condescending, “Aw. You poor thing.” She pumps him harder.

Zuko inhales sharply and crashes their lips together. He tangles a hand in her hair and tips her head backward to deepen the kiss. His tongue is demanding against hers. His teeth are sharp against her lips.

Katara knows this is her downfall. She’s been adding kindling to this bonfire with every glare, every snide comment, every strike she’s ever made against him. All it took was a tiny spark to set it on fire. To let it all burn. To let the flames reach high into the sky and spark and spit every piece of rage she’d ever felt against him.

She bites back and rips at his remaining clothes. She runs her hands across his collarbones, down his shoulders, appreciating the smooth skin and hard muscles there.

Zuko responds in kind, tearing at the knots of her dress. He pushes it off her, awkward with only one hand, but manages to strip her down to her sarashi.

“Ugh,” he groans as he tries to rip the strips off.

Katara laughs at his frustration. “Having trouble?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d better.”

Zuko snarls. Tiny tendrils of smoke fill the air and Katara’s sarashi wraps fall off in pieces.

“Seriously?” she snaps. “You burned them off?”

“You could have helped me.”

“I would never.”

As soon as they’re both naked, Zuko pulls her on top of him so she straddles him. His cock is hot and hard against her and she grinds against him, coating him in her wetness but not taking him.

Not yet.

“Is this what you think of?” Katara asks, circling her hips.

He smirks up at her, brings his right hand to her clit and strokes once, twice. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Anger drives her forward and spite holds her back. She leans down and kisses along his jaw, sucks lightly at his earlobe. She purrs into his ear, “What the hell does that mean?” And then she bites hard and sucks a bruise into his neck.

Zuko hisses. His fingers move and he pushes two inside her roughly.

“You don’t want to know the things I think of doing to you.” His fingers curl forward at the same moment his thumb finds her clit and he rubs them together.

Katara keens. “Yes,” she pants. “I do.”

“I would need both hands,” he snarks, wiggling the fingers of his left hand and wincing only slightly as he does.

“Fine.” She calls some water from a pitcher and holds it over his injury. She discards the water a few moments later and picks up his hand to bend it this way and that.

“What did you do?” Zuko asks, incredulous at the lack of pain. He moves his hand on his own and sure enough – it’s healed.

“I told you I had healing abilities.”

“You. Little. Brat.” He wraps both arms around her and flips them. His mouth is hot against hers and he kisses her until she’s gasping for breath. “You really like playing with me, don’t you?”

“If by ‘playing,’ you mean torturing you because you deserve it, then yes.”

“I _hate_ you,” he growls against her lips.

“I know. Now fuck me.”

He does. Into the mattress where he marks up her beautiful skin with his teeth. On the table where he grips the curve of her hips so tight that she’ll have bruises for a week. Against the wall where he holds both of her wrists above her head with one hand and teases her clit with the other until she begs.

“Zuko, Zuko, Zuko,” she pleads. Her eyes are half-lidded and her mouth hangs open, lips swollen and kiss-slickened. He almost can’t refuse her.

Almost.

He forces her back against the wall, pushing into her even further and her eyes roll back in her head. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and tries again, “Zuko. Spirits, Zuko. Come on.”

“So demanding,” he says, moving tantalizingly slowly.

Katara rakes her nails down his back, leaving angry red lines that say more about how she feels about him than words ever could. She tilts her hips forward, taking him deeper and he curses her, driving into her with abandon.

Zuko draws something out of her as she tips over the edge. And when she comes, there’s the shape of a name embedded in her high-pitched moan. He says something at the same moment as his hips stutter. Something made of hard syllables softly spoken.

But the sounds mix and overlap into some indiscernible mess.

When they’re done, he pulls out of her, releases her wrists and watches her for exactly long enough to know she’s not going to immediately collapse. When she doesn’t, he picks up her clothes and tosses them to her.

“Close the door on your way out,” he says, turning away from her.

“I fucking hate you.”

* * *

* * *


End file.
